


The Cake

by shittershutter



Category: Dunkirk (2017)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-02
Updated: 2018-05-02
Packaged: 2019-05-01 04:16:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14512353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shittershutter/pseuds/shittershutter
Summary: Gibson goes to a wedding on a warm spring day, sunspots jumping across his shoulders as Tommy adjusts his tie and dusts off his sleeves.





	The Cake

**Author's Note:**

> * Here, have some fluff. 
> 
> * Unbetad, sorry.

Gibson goes to a wedding on a warm spring day, sunspots jumping across his shoulders as Tommy adjusts his tie and dusts off his sleeves. 

It's a suit they share for all the ceremonial occasions imaginable -- it's not like they are invited to attend anything together -- and Gibson fills it well while it hangs loosely around Tommy's frame, sleeves brushing his knuckles. 

People call Tommy "dear" a lot and offer him biscuits when he wears it. 

"You are so pretty," Tommy whispers. He's done with whisking the dead moths and the cobwebs off Gibson's rounder shoulders until only the smell of lavender remains between them. 

Gibson plucks the cigarette from Tommy's mouth, kisses him -- all wet lips, no tongue -- then puts it back in and marches out leaving the younger man behind. 

Tommy stands still in the middle of the kitchen as the sun burns the back of his neck and just lets himself bask in the light as the steps echo against the stairs and grow distant. 

Gibson has his small inner circle now, his friends. Tommy notices it first in his speech patterns, how at first he'd echo his manner of speaking with an occasional Alex thrown in, down to the intonation. 

Then his vocabulary expands, it changes shape and Tommy is caught off guard by a sudden joke he's never heard before, by an epithet Gibson applies awkwardly to Tommy's hair, making him blush. 

The pride he feels is immense. The dull ache of separation he stoically ignores. 

"Would you go?" Alex asks him as they're sharing their second bottle of champagne on the floor, their faces and hands red with the setting sun. 

He insists on champagne; it seems like the only appropriate drink to get drunk on given the context. 

"How would I..." Tommy can't decide if the question is stupid or plain cruel, so he settles on humming unintelligibly in hopes Alex drops it.

"If you could though, would you?"

Tommy leans back against the sofa's leg and as the champagne bubbles through him relaxing his leg enough for it to fully straighten as he hooks the heel on the coffee table, he closes his eyes and imagines Gibson and him having two suits. 

He envisions them sitting side by side wearing those, shoulders touching, on a church bench as the happy couple exchanges the rings with the priest mumbling and the organ blasting. Petals, and bouquets, and all. 

He sees Gibson putting his head on his shoulder, curls tickling the jaw, and even there, in his fantasy, there is a pang of nervousness, a paranoid jab to his gut that makes Tommy look around searching for disapproval. 

But it's a dream, so there isn't any. 

"You would," Alex concludes right next to him, and Tommy jumps a little opening his eyes. He realizes then he's smiling so broadly it hurts his permanently tense face. 

* * * 

"I brought you a cake," Gibson says, and Tommy blinks into the darkness, disoriented, pawing against the cold spot on the floor where Alex was when he fell asleep. 

Empty bottles roll around as he gets up and limps to the kitchen following the sound and the light. 

"... what?" 

The sky outside their window is full of stars -- Tommy's probably lost five to six hours to the bubbles and Alex's ramblings -- but Gibson looks the same, a white rose petal clinging to his sleeve notwithstanding. 

"A cake," Gibson repeats and reaches for his pocket. 

Tommy whimpers involuntarily. It's their one and *only* suit, after all. 

It's a generous slice, wrapped in a few layers of napkins and misshapen beyond recognition. It also has a cigarette butt sticking to it, but Gibson flicks it off before Tommy can remark on it. 

"Is it good?"

"No idea."

Tommy weights the piece against his hand and goes for a plate to serve it just like his mama taught him. Granted, it has the consistency of a goulash, but it smells of citrus and vanilla, and Tommy is not saying no to that. 

He is about to cut it in half, napkins, ash and all, when Gibson interjects with: "It's not how you eat a wedding cake."

Tommy half-expects another lecture of how he should put the sweeter side on the tongue and the spicier part against the roof of the mouth -- because Gibson is French, he knows food. He cooks for fun sometimes, the freak. 

It's a bit of a cultural clash every time. But it gets settled fast enough with Tommy grumbling about how he doesn't recall Gibson complaining much about his natural ability of putting things in his mouth in other setting and later doing just that so enthusiastically his jaw hurts in the morning and Gibson blushes bloody red each time he drops his gaze to Tommy's lips.

There is no lecture this time. Gibson simply takes the misshapen slice and brings it to Tommy's mouth smearing the cream along his lower lip. 

"Ah," Tommy snorts and bites in. It's a bit gooey, and it pales in comparison with anything his mama has ever baked, but he appreciates the sweetness, appreciates the gesture even more so. 

He takes the remaining cake from Gibson's sticky fingers and feeds it to the man feeling the teeth grazing him gently. 

They chew in silence, fingers at each other's faces, not really touching, and watching the icing melt in Gibson's nostrils makes Tommy feel so close to him, closer than when they fuck. Makes him happy and light, and warm. 

He laughs with the feeling quietly, shaking his head, and then he throws his three-fingered hand forward in an exaggerated gesture and says: "I do."

Gibson doesn't laugh at the joke, not at all. He takes the damaged limb in his and doesn't let it go when he wipes his mouth and presses it to the scarred, sticky skin. 

He leads Tommy to the bedroom, a long journey of five steps, and when the younger man protests while waving his cake-smeared fingers, he promises to lick it all off.

He does just that then, releasing every finger, now shiny and wet, with a soft pop making them slide out from between his lips. 

They kiss until there is no sweetness left, all swallowed, dripped down their wrists, then more. 

Gibson is careful with their only suit, but he is even more tender with Tommy as he relaxes and spreads before him, one leg bent, one straight with the calf resting on the pillow. 

"You can go like this," Tommy tells him, teeth grazing his temple. They've fucked in the morning, half asleep, barely moving against each other as the sun made their skin glow with white and gold -- Tommy has faith in his body. 

Gibson complies, although it's slow, agonizing, as he holds the younger man by the waist and pulls him onto himself. Tommy hisses, squirming like a snake, ribs pushing out from under the skin when he arches his spine and digs the all of his nails into the man's forearms. 

Comfortable silence hangs between them, disrupted by Tommy's shuddering breaths, and they wait. Gibson doesn't say "I love you" to speed things up, but it still does the job as Tommy mewls and pushes up until their mouths connect again and the movement begins. 

As Tommy looks up at the man, his heaving chest and the broken ribcage underneath, he sees him capable, strong. Invincible even, with his shoulders so broad he can't see anything else behind the man, only his skin, orange with the nightstand lamp's glow. 

The feeling of pride returns while the separation he's felt is forgotten, impossible to exist with their bodies pressed so tightly together. 

He slides his palm against the side of Gibson's face, and the man nuzzles and kisses it coming like this, with his face hidden, pressed against Tommy's shaky fingers. 

His cock shoots deep inside him, again and again until Tommy feels so full his head swims and he has to drop it down to the pillow.

He digs his nails in and doesn't let Gibson pull out until he jerks himself off getting most of it on the older man's belly. 

It's sticky as he runs his fingers through making Gibson moan, quietly, but still -- Tommy is working tirelessly on coaxing any sound out, verbal or not. Sticky like the cake's icing. "Fucking metaphorical," he thinks, hands ghosting against his hole as Gibson pulls leaves his body, and he fights the feeling of emptiness with knuckles rubbing against the swollen rim, teasing the burning stretch a little. 

He can make himself hard again just by applying the light pressure against it but then Gibson comes back to bed, and he looks deadly tired. Talking a lot does that to him, drains the energy out knocking him dead off his feet afterward. 

Tommy is yawning himself so hard his jaw cracks; he doesn't mind.


End file.
